


Absent Friends

by PerpetuallyToastInMouth



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Boy That Necroworld View Sure Is Nice, Gen, M/M, Mild Philosophical Debates, Some People Just Don't Change Their Minds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 09:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerpetuallyToastInMouth/pseuds/PerpetuallyToastInMouth
Summary: Megatron (still recovering from the death of Ravage) and Terminus (still with a rather rosy view of his former co-worker) have a chat in Necroworld. Set just a bit before "Lost Light" #1.





	Absent Friends

“I knew you’d be here somewhere.”

It had taken Terminus a few cycles find his way around the field of flowers, but if there was one thing he could always rely on, it was his stubbornness. Sure, other things helped, too: some of the youngsters back at the fortress were kind enough to show him the way, and the holographic statue of his old friend proved a pretty handy landmark for the area. And he had to admit, the view from the top of the hill where it’d been placed was spectacular, too.

But who needed those now? The real thing was a few meters away, sitting in front of another empty plinth, gray plating clashing with the light blue sea of petals. Could he be in pain? Fearing the worst, the excavator picked up the pace and switched to robot mode... only for a sharp pain in his mid-section to stop him. Letting out a grunt, he fell on his knees curled up, the old self-defense protocols kicking in.

Megatron heard it right away and rushed to his side. “Didn’t Ratchet tell you not to shift modes so quickly?” He straightened his old co-worker up as he murmured “Your cog’s still cold and stiff” and put one arm over his shoulder to help him walk. “Come, sit here for a while.” he said and guided him to his own spot.

Terminus was struggling to follow a bit, but tried not to show it. “I was worried about _you_ , actually. _I’m_ fine. Don’t mind me.”

“No. I made that mistake once. I’m not gonna repeat myself.” There was something final and harsh in his tone, and so the old bot chose not to answer.

With small, encouraging movements, Megatron brought him back to the stone head and made him sit down. Terminus even caught him glancing at his new legs with amazement, as if the very idea of reattached appendages was brand-new. The excavator, on the other hand, couldn’t stop looking at the other’s face. Sure, the millions of years had left their mark –scratches, dents, the odd missing paint flake–, but he could still see the bright, inquisitive writer beneath all that.

“Seeing anything you like?”

“Plenty.”

Megatron let a vent somewhere between sarcastic chortle and genuine crack up and whispered “Oh, get out of here”. Terminus would still count it as a point in his favor.

They let some time pass with no words, Terminus letting the pleasant breeze cool his systems down, Megatron staring into the distance, concentrated on something no one would ever see.

It was the eldest who broke the (awkward? Comforting?) silence: “So, you disappeared after a while. You were there when I went through all the medical exams –and I thank you for it–, but then I lost you and went out to look.” He paused, realizing his mistake: “Maybe you want me to leave? Let you be on your own a bit longer?”

Megatron’s helm turned in an abrupt motion and he gave a reassuring smile. “No, no. You’re lovely company, as always, _and_ you need to rest a bit before you move again. Besides...” He looked a bit to his left and the monument base: “I don’t know what more benefits loneliness has for me right now.”

Terminus didn’t want to broach the topic. He knew the purpose of the statues already –about half of the whispers in the fortress were about some dead comrade names Skids–, but he’d only accept whatever his friend told him and not ask for anything more. Megatron always had his reasons, and he’d always trusted him –why change that now?

But maybe it was that blind faith (devotion?) that put the warframe off, as he stood up with shaded optics. He took a few steps forward, kneeled down and showed one of the flowers, cradling it in his fingers. “Do you know what this is?”

“Some local species of fauna?”

“Look closer. There’s a few around you.”

Terminus had to hunch a little and his optic zooming capabilities were far from up-to-date, but he still gasped when he saw the tiny fuel lines in the blue petals: “Oh! These aren’t organic.”

“Indeed. They’re manufactured here. _Were_ , I suppose.” He looked up at his old co-worker. “Do you remember anyone bringing you here, at the chambers back at the fortress?”

The elder’s memory banks returned almost blank, with the exception of a few distorted video recordings. “I remember there _was_ someone, but I couldn’t tell you details.”

Megatron nodded with sorrow. “That was Censere. Some called him the Necrobot. He kept a complete database of dead Cybertronians... As well as those responsible.”

Terminus finally realized what Megatron was doing here. Asking permission with his eyes, he slowly turned around to read the name on the stone: “Ravage of Stanix”.

“He was a comrade?”

“He was _alive_. He perished while I was hiding behind a bunch of Autobots, defending the purity of ill-conceived _principles_ while they put their lives on the line. And even if I _did_ do the same, which I _did_ after Ravage was torn in two, it wouldn’t matter, because I would _still_ have to _eviscerate_ the spawn of a glitch that did it to him! I’m the _best weapon_ they have available, the _only thing_ that stood between _them_ and an _army_!”

His voice rose in volume, his timbre turned vitriolic, until the last few words were spit like burning venom, melting away the previous serenity of his face. When he realized it, his mouth dropped, his eyes shut off. He looked old at that moment –older than Terminus, the veterans of the First Civil War, the universe itself.

And Terminus had no idea how to console him.

Megatron’s voice was now but a hoarse grumble, barely audible over the wind. “ _His_ death is on me, _Glitch’s_ death is on me... Even my _own_ death would be on me.” He smiled with such grief, it barely looked like he did. “And that’s supposed to be my pacifist phase.”

Terminus couldn’t turn his voicebox on. He remembered his own (until now) last words to the mech he had revered above all else: a call to arms, an appeal to violence. The personal cost was immaterial. But if he’d known the result, he wouldn’t have pressured the young firebrand like this, would he? He would’ve called for moderation, for- Oh no, he wouldn’t, of _course_ he wouldn’t. Someone _had_ to take up arms so the rest would follow, someone had to lead that charge against corruption, systemic violence and prejudice. And he saw no problem with it; he was adamant that the only way to change the world was through conflict.

But now he had to deal with the consequences on its frontline warriors.

“It’s not _only_ on you.”

Megatron had been lost in his thoughts for a bit, as he jumped up a bit at those words.

“Remember how I encouraged you? How I told you to use your fists along with your words? Maybe those flowers should be on me, as well.”

The warframe attempted to engage his own voicebox, but the miner gestured for him not to interrupt yet. His voice was calm but urgent, like all those times checking Megatron’s manuscripts for errors or exchanging stories in their rare breaks.

“And even then, this was a personal choice, which we all had. At some point, many of us came across your work. I know some hated it, others ignored it... and me personally, I adored it. It became my lifeline to the rest of the world, deep down in the mines. Someone had put my own thoughts into carefully chosen words, far better than I ever could.” He smiled with some mischief, admitting a shameful error: “When you were transferred in Messatine, I was a bit proud –happy, even. ‘Look, he’s here, among us!’ is what I thought.” He looked down to avoid his eyes. “And my time with you down there? Take out all the toil and tear of the mines, and it was some of the best of my entire life.”

Megatron’s optics flashed a bit brighter and he muttered: “I’m honored.”

“But it’s true.” He was still smiling –perhaps bitterly- while he continued: “And in any case, if you feel you’re at fault, then many of us share in it. For reading, appreciating and spreading your ideas. We shared your passion, and some joined your army. I would’ve done it, too, if I could. I’m more than ready to accept blame for those ideas and actions, even if I defend them to my death.”

He saw Megatron was now looking down –if he was moved or terrified, he couldn’t tell. Terminus decided to switch gears for a bit: “But given the lovely young people you seem to have gathered under you, you seem to be doing fine.”

That elicited only a groan and some grumbling: “You only say that because you haven’t spent _months_ on that bedlam of a ship with them. Go do that and _then_ we’ll talk.”

Terminus laughed and couldn’t help but notice how the edges of Megatron’s lips were shooting up, regardless of what the rest of his face conveyed.

His face –now looking tired yet regal, as before– relaxed again, and he came to sit next to his old friend: “I wonder what Ravage would say about this, if he ever saw you.”

The excavator was more timid when he asked: “What were his last words?”

Megatron’s optics darkened again, but he said with conviction: “He told me: ‘Don’t change back’.” He paused. “He wanted me to remain steadfast... to what?”

“Well... What do _you_ want to stay steadfast to?”

“My ideals... From before the War? From my time on the ‘Lost Light’? The two combined?”

Terminus had been searching his databanks for some time now, and he finally found what he’d been looking for: “Our state is more mercurial than believed. We not only switch modes, but are molded by all the myriad forces, physical and intellectual, of a complete society. Our parts are replaceable, our minds rewritable, our module capacity increasable. Change is our nature, and it is up to us to direct in the personal and social spheres”.

“Who said that?"

“ _You_ did. From your letters to the manual workers of Altihex. Remember?”

He didn’t answer. But he looked thankful for that someone who was there to remind him, even just a bit. He leaned on the plinth and finally started talking about the War.


End file.
